You’ve Got The Wrong House, Villain - Chapter 152

A lifetime ago, Chu Xun was shackled and thrown in jail on false charges. For three whole years, he suffered extraodinary torment from his cellmates every day. Even though he had escaped death many times, he still died from his cellmates’ fists the day before he was to be released.

After death, Chu Xun transmigrated to a different world of cultivation, where cultivation was the one true path. Carrying the weight of his hatred, Chu Xun began to cultivate in hopes of becoming an Immortal Emperor, who could manipulate heaven and earth and travel through time. After painstaking cultivation of three thousand years, he succeeded. Then he sacrificed all his cultivation without hesitation and returned to the day before he was to be released.

This life, he wanted to find out the truth and the one behind his murder in last life. He would continue to cultivate and strengthen himself so that the tragedy would not repeat itself. He wanted to master his own destiny.

In this life, what people would Chu Xun encounter and what experience of love and hate would he have with them? What difficulties would he encounter and how would he overcome? The answer is the book.

When Xia Qingyi wakes up and finds herself in a hospital without any memories of her past, what else can she do other than to approach the person who had saved her?

This novel is also known as 1000 Years Later, Even My Weakest Follower Has Become A Demon King

After traveling through the game where he worked so hard to clear the level, Zhou Mu found that the whole world was stunned for some reason.

Why is the mainland united in its own name?

What’s going on with this religion in its own name?

What the hell are members of the royal family claiming to have their own bloodline? I wonder if this game doesn’t have this feature?

“What have you done in the thousand years I’ve been away!”

- Description from novelbuddy

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”